


Of Unexpected Parties

by anololyksa



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:27:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anololyksa/pseuds/anololyksa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. It's Grantaire's birthday, and he wakes up alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Enjolras woke before the sun had time to slip in under the blinds, disengaged himself from the arm holding him close to a soft and secure body, and sat up. Beside him, Grantaire shifted, groaned slightly at the loss of Enjolras' warmth and turned over. Enjolras contemplated him as he slipped out of bed and began pulling on the clothes that had been strewn across the floor late the previous night. He was beautiful in his sleep, without the haze of alcohol clouding his eyes – although that had appeared less often lately – with his curls spread over the pillow and his face peaceful. Enjolras rounded the bed and bent over Grantaire, kissing his forehead gently. His whisper of, “Happy Birthday, R” went unheard by the sleeping man, but Enjolras got up and quietly left the room.

He brewed coffee as he moved around the living room of the flat he shared with Grantaire – the flat they had shared since they had “finally”, in the words of Courfeyrac, admitted their feelings for each other a little over a year ago. Then Grantaire had told him, as they cuddled on his couch on his birthday, still unsure of their relationship, that he had never had a proper birthday party. And, since then, Enjolras had been determined to throw Grantaire the best first birthday party he could.

He picked up a pen and wrote on the notepad by the door:

_R - happy birthday. Meet me at the Café Musain at twelve. I love you._

He texted Courfeyrac and Combeferre as he left the house.

_I'm on my way. Do you have the decorations?_

Courfeyrac's reply was as expected.

_It's still too early to be awake. Yes, I've got the damn things._

Enjolras smiled and left the flat, forsaking the lift (useless installation that cost too much and was detrimental to the environment, in his opinion) for the stairs. Halfway down, he heard footsteps coming upwards, and slowed, expecting the old lady with the cats who couldn't work the lift. It was Javert, however, from the sixth floor, who looked at Enjolras disapprovingly, shaking his head, before walking on, and saying over his shoulder, “Sir, I would be most obliged if you could keep the noise down at night.”.

Conveying his most sincere apologies, Enjolras bid Javert a good morning, and continued his descent. The thought of texting Grantaire and telling him about the encounter with Javert crossed his mind – but he dismissed it. This had to be a surprise, and he would not be able to keep it from Grantaire if they spoke.

The walk to the Musain was short, and his ascent to the back room they always occupied even more so. Les Amis de l'ABC - for that was the name of their non-profit organisation, whose Combeferre-run Facebook page described them as “fighting for the good of people everywhere” - were spread out across the small space: Jehan cuddled in Courfeyrac's lap as he dozed in one of the large chairs; Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta were sitting, slumped, around a small table; Bahorel and Feuilly were gulping coffee and Combeferre, predictably, was sorting boxes of decorations.

Enjolras sighed. “Morning. Where are Marius and Cosette? And Éponine?”

Jehan piped up from his place on Courfeyrac's lap. “He said they'd be late. Éponine texted a couple of minutes ago to say that she slept in and will be here as soon as possible. It is rather early, Enjolras.”

Enjolras shook his head. They would need time to prepare everything, and he would not settle for anything less than perfection.

"We can't wait for them. Let's get started. 'Ferre?".

Combeferre straightened from where he had been bent over the decorations and shook his head.

"They're not very... Grantaire-y. He'll probably prefer it if we just put up the lights and leave the rest.".

Combeferre was right. The rest of the decorations looked like they had come straight from some teenager's party - all sparkly "happy birthday" signs and ridiculous hats. Enjolras could see what Grantaire would have to say about them: pointless things made by megalomaniac companies who just wanted to extort money from unsuspecting mothers who were preparing for their kids' parties. Enjolras agreed with what he was sure would be Grantaire's view, really, but would he mind not having any proper decorations?

He sighed.“Yes. True. Let's just put up the lights, okay? I've told him to be here at twelve. Has anyone spoken to the barmaids about lunch?”.

The poet came to the rescue. “I spoke to them yesterday, like you asked, Enjolras. They're bringing food at half twelve, and I've asked them to cut down on the booze.”.

“Thanks. Great. Let's get started, then. Where's the tablecloth?”.

And thus the Amis got to work – and it was something to behold, because, deep down, they all loved Grantaire deeply, though perhaps they did not approve of his reliance on drink, but they could all agree that being with Enjolras had had a very positive effect on that.

But none loved him more than Enjolras – just as the cynic believed only in his leader, Enjolras' passion for Patria was tempered only by Grantaire, and only Grantaire could make him forget, for a little while, the weight of her on his shoulders.

* * *

 

Grantaire woke up some time after the sun had begun streaming into the room, and reached for Enjolras, only to find cold bed where his lover should be. He sat up, groggily rubbing his eyes, and murmured Enjolras' name, thinking that he might be in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. Hearing no answer, he got up, and went into the living room, calling for him. He was nowhere in the flat, so Grantaire went into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot he must have made before he left, and curled up on the sofa to drink it, thinking (hoping) that Enjolras would be back before too long. Grantaire hated waking up without him.

As he was raising the mug to his lips, the phone rang, and Grantaire almost spilled his coffee in reaching to grab it, wanting it to be his lover.

“Hello?"

“Grantaire. Good morning.”

No such luck. Grantaire's parents did not call often, something which was welcome to both Grantaire and Enjolras – Grantaire because he did not want to be reminded of the pain he had undergone at their hands, and Enjolras because Grantaire's memories of his childhood had not exactly endeared his lover's parents to him.

“Father. Good morning.”

“Well, happy birthday, Grantaire. Your mother and I wanted to wish you many happy returns of the day.”

Birthday? Grantaire mentally kicked himself for picking up the phone. Of course it was his birthday. But where was Enjolras? Usually, when Grantaire's parents called, Enjolras would be there to comfort him when the call ended, and to hold him and talk him through the panic that inevitably followed. But now there was no Enjolras.

“Thank you, father.” His voice was stiff – why couldn't he just hang up and leave Grantaire to his coffee?

“How are you, Grantaire? Still trailing around after that E- En- What is his name?”

Grantaire bristled. His father had no right to insult Enjolras. His voice rose a little in answer: “Enjolras, father. And yes, we have been together for over a year now.”

And then his father was off – Grantaire's parents had never been supportive of “phase” he was going through, as they called it, and they took any chance they could to remind him of it.

“Please, Grantaire, don't delude yourself into thinking that he actually wants you. He's just in it for the material pleasure, like all those men.”

They had never understood, and never would, too buried in their narrow-minded view of the world, and of their son, whose descent into alcoholism had, in their opinion, been wholly influenced by his sexuality.

Grantaire's voice rose again, and he spat down the phone, “Those men, father? I am one of those men.”

He should have known not to provoke his father: the voice that replied was one that conveyed pure disgust: “Grantaire, after all your mother and I have done for you, you still dare to say that to me? You still believe in this... this... stupidity? I give up on trying to make you see sense. Goodbye.”

Grantaire put the phone down with a trembling hand and curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his legs. His father could be right. Enjolras couldn't love him. Him, Grantaire, who couldn't keep up with an art degree, and who still wasn't over his alcohol addiction. Enjolras could have anyone he wanted. He couldn't want Grantaire. Why else would he leave on his birthday? Surely, if he loved him and wanted to be with him, he would have stayed to at least wish him a happy birthday before leaving for the university or to meet the rest of their friends? _Enjolras_ ' friends.They weren't really Grantaire's friends at all.

Still shaking, Grantaire rose from the sofa, his coffee abandoned on the coffee table, and stumbled over to the kitchen, opening the fridge and searching for some alcohol. There was none, of course: Enjolras had thrown it all out weeks ago, and, then, Grantaire had not complained. He had not needed the drink when he had Enjolras. Now, however, Enjolras was God-knows-where, and Grantaire needed a drink. He took his wallet from the hall table, not noticing Enjolras' handwriting on the pad next to the spare change dish, and left the flat, slamming the door behind him. His phone remained on the table – who would call?

The cheapest liquor store in the vicinity of their flat was reached in a matter of minutes, and Grantaire bought as much as he could carry, opening the first bottle as he left the store. By the time he was halfway home, the alcohol in his blood told him that it would be a great idea to go in the opposite direction, away from the ugly noise of the city, and find somewhere nice and warm to sit. Grantaire did just that, walking a little unsteadily down the pavement towards the areas which, when sober, his mind (and Enjolras) would tell him to avoid.

On the Île de la Cité, the island in the centre of the Seine, the bells of Notre Dame rang twelve times, and the friends assembled at the Café Musain, gifts in hand and birthday wishes on their lips, began to look impatiently towards the door.

Five minutes passed, and then ten, and the phone Grantaire had left behind began to ring with the ringtone he had assigned to Enjolras, knowing that it would annoy him. It went unanswered, fell silent, and then rang again. And again.

But Grantaire, who had now downed a bottle of wine and was starting on his second, did not hear.


	2. Chapter Two

In the back room of the Café Musain, Grantaire's cheerful answerphone message played to the silence.

“Hello, this is Grantaire. If you don't know my name, you've reached the wrong number, if you're the police, fuck off, and if you're one of my friends, I'll try and call you back when I'm sober. 'Bye!”

Enjolras ended the call before Grantaire's voice had had a chance to fade away and be replaced by the tinny, impersonal female voice which could not help them contact him.

Putting down the phone and looking at his hands, he shook his head. “Its half past twelve. He should be here by now.”

Combeferre stood up from his seat and walked over to Enjolras. His voice was soft. “He's probably just still asleep. I'm sure he'll be here soon.”

Enjolras looked up at him, frustration and no small amount of worry in his eyes. Then he looked back down, slumped slightly, and sighed. “You must be right. But how could he sleep through our calls? His ringtone could wake the dead. And he hates waking up alone.”

He stood, pushing his chair back, and strode towards the door, turning once he'd reached it to speak to Les Amis, who were looking at him uncertainly. “I'm going to go get him. If he's still asleep, I'll wake him and bring him here. He might not have seen my note, anyway. Stay here. I'll be back with R as soon as I can. Someone tell the barmaids-”

He was interrupted by the entrance of Éponine, Marius and Cosette, followed by one of the long-suffering barmaids. Éponine pushed past him and rushed into the room, yelling, “Happy birthday, Grantaire!”. Then, not seeing him, she turned, and looked back at Enjolras, still smiling. She said, teasingly, “C'mon, where are you hiding him? Look! We've brought presents!” Marius and Cosette stepped further into the room, looking around for Grantaire and grinning at the rest of those assembled. They were carrying the presents that Les Amis had hoarded at Cosette and Éponine's apartment – it was the one least frequented by Grantaire, mostly because of the fact that, more often than not, Éponine and Cosette were to be found elsewhere.

Enjolras sighed, and stepped forward, taking Éponine's hand. “Éponine. He's not here yet, and he's not answering his phone. I'm going to go get him. You stay here, okay? I'll... we'll be back soon.”

Éponine nodded, biting her lip, the smile having left her face – although Grantaire had not gone missing as he used to lately, all of Les Amis remembered well the long nights and fruitless, terrifying searches that had occurred during his previous disappearances. They remembered the hospital visits that usually followed, too. She walked over to where Combeferre had sat down again, collapsing into the chair next to his. Enjolras turned to the barmaid, who had been watching the proceedings with an air of having seen it all before.

He smiled shakily at her and murmured, “could you... bring the food up again at half past one? I'm very sorry about the inconvenience.”. His usual assurance was gone: he rubbed the nape of his neck, worry showing through.

The barmaid smiled, nodded, and stood back to allow Enjolras to pass her and rush down the passageway, his worry giving way to haste. His footsteps were heard descending the staircase and crossing the shop floor until the front door closed with the cheerful tinkle of its bell, followed by silence. 

* * *

Grantaire wandered through the streets which make up the unpleasant side of Paris, stumbling past street corners he hadn't passed out by in months and alleyways he hadn't thrown up in since before his last birthday. Nobody here would think of helping him: the denizens of these streets represented the lowest dregs of society, where all the evils of human nature fester. 

He was, by now, well into his third bottle of cheap alcohol. He was staggering from one side of the pavement to the other, bottle held loosely by his side, muttering nonsense which, if anyone was listening, would have contained multiple utterances of the word “Enjolras”, not that they would know what that meant. And, if they listened closely, and perhaps followed Grantaire for some minutes, they might have heard something so 'romantic' that the inhabitants of that area would have laughed: a “where am I?” or a “please come get me, love.” But those were few and far between, and became less and less frequent as Grantaire finished his bottle.

One alleyway looked particularly inviting, all soft shadows and strong brick walls, and Grantaire stumbled into it, collapsing by one of the walls, groaning when his back made abrupt contact with the masonry. He raised the bottle to his lips again, only to find that it was empty. Throwing it away from him with as much force as he could muster, he made to get up, to go find more alcohol, but, shaky legs unable to support his weight, he fell back on the wall. He tried again, but the same thing happened; and again, but his movements were becoming slower and weaker by the minute. Sleep suddenly seemed like a very good idea. Grantaire let his body flop to the side and, lying curled in on himself on the cold floor of an alley somewhere in Paris, he closed his eyes and fell into a sleep that was more like a faint.

* * *

Enjolras unlocked the front door of his block of flats and rushed through, letting it swing to behind him. The cat-lady stood by the door of the lift, studying the console and shaking her head. With a “here, ma'am, let me,” Enjolras called the lift and squeezed in next to her – it was faster than the stairs, much faster, and the environment wouldn't mind one quick trip. On the fourth floor, he waited agonisingly for the old lady to collect the belongings which seemed to have spread themselves throughout the small space during the short trip, but, finally, she was out, with many “yes, good afternoon, ma'am”s and many “yes, thank you dear”s. Enjolras jabbed the button for the top floor and waited impatiently for the doors to close and the lift to begin its ascent. 

He tried to calm his breathing as the lift moved: Grantaire _must_ be alright, he told himself – he must have just slept through our calls, and I can go in and wake him up and wish him a happy birthday and he will be _okay_. But Enjolras couldn't help but remember all the times when Grantaire had _not_ been okay – the times when they had found him, late at night, somewhere deep in Paris' maze of streets, the times when he had been too drunk to stand, to speak. That had not happened in a long time, now, but to Enjolras the fear was too near. 

The lift doors opened, and he ran through, stopping just short of running into his flat door. He unlocked it, hands trembling, and ducked through, saying, “Grantaire? Grantaire, love, are you there?” When there was no answer, he rushed through the flat to their bedroom and opened the door as gently as he could in his haste, not wanting to wake Grantaire rudely if he was still asleep. But the bed was empty, and the clothes that had been on the floor were gone. He moved back through the flat, and saw the half-drunk coffee and the telephone on the coffee table. Who would have called the house phone? None of them had, all their calls had gone straight to Grantaire's mobile. Enjolras walked over to the sofa and picked up the phone.

Grantaire's parents.

And his phone, blinking with missed calls, left on the coffee table.

And he had woken up alone this morning.

He hated waking up alone.

Breath harsh and scared, Enjolras pulled his phone out of his pocket and rang the first number he found.

“'Ferre? 'Ferre, he's not here, he's left his phone, 'Ferre, where is he?”


	3. Chapter Three

In the back room of the Café Musain, all the half-hearted conversations which had begun after Enjolras' departure ended abruptly when Combeferre's phone rang. All eyes turned to him as he snatched it up and pressed it to his ear. In the silence, Enjolras' panicked voice could faintly be heard.

Éponine's eyes went wide, and she took out her phone, mouthing a frantic “Should I call the police?” at Courfeyrac. He shook his head, watching Combeferre, who was trying to simultaneously reassure and question Enjolras. Finally, he ended the call, and turned to the rest of the group, who were sitting, tense, ready to begin looking for Grantaire. 

“Enjolras has gone to ask the guy at the liquor store, but he thinks that R left after his parents called, bought alcohol, and is out somewhere.”

His voice still held some of its usual assurance, but his fear for Grantaire was evident in his slight stutter, and his shaking hands.

“Call all the usual bars, and anyone who might have seen him. Éponine, you know the city better than any of us, c'mon, let's go find him. Courf, Bahorel, Bossuet, you too. Joly... we might need a doctor.”

Joly nodded and stood, briefly kissing a trembling Musichetta's cheek.

Combeferre started towards the door, saying to those who would remain at the Musain: “call us if you hear anything, and come help us look, if nobody's seen him.”

And, in an aside to Éponine, who was beside him, “do you want to call Montparnasse? If anyone's seen him, it'll be one of them.”

Éponine shook her head, but her voice was uncertain. “Let's not get him involved before we have to. Grantaire wouldn't like it, not after what happened last time.”

Combeferre nodded and went through the door, followed by the others. They clattered down the stairs and out of the shop.

* * *

Enjolras had, by then, reached the liquor store and, breath coming in quick pants, he pushed open the door and went in.

The proprietor took one look at him, with his red cheeks and wide eyes, curls askew from running in the wind, and, shaking his head, told him, “he was here forty minutes ago. Didn't look great. Bought a couple of bottles, and went in the direction of the tenth district.”

Enjolras nodded his thanks, turned, ran out of the shop, and turned right, heading towards the Seine. As he jogged, he called Combeferre, who picked up on the first ring. 

“'Ferre? He's gone towards the tenth. I'm going towards there. Stay around the Musain, he might not have reached the river yet. Search up to the bridge, and then call me. 

Without waiting to hear Combeferre's reply, he shoved his phone into his pocket, and hailed a passing taxi, telling the driver, between gasps for air, to take him across the Seine as quickly as possible. As they pulled away from the pavement, Enjolras looked out of the window, biting his lip with the fear that he was, somehow, passing Grantaire even now, that his lover hadn't reached the river, and that he, Enjolras, would not be there when he was found.

* * *

Combeferre put his phone away and relayed the information Enjolras had just given him to the others. They, grouped around him, listened instinctively to the authority in his tone, although he, like all of them, was fidgeting and looking around nervously.

"Éponine, you go back towards their house. Look around there. Courf, Bahorel, Bossuet, you too. Joly and I will head towards the river. He probably won't be anywhere near home by now, but... Let's just look. Call if you find anything."

They split up, each moving in their allocated direction. They were hoping against hope that Grantaire would be found here, in the safer areas of Paris, rather than across the river, where he tended to go: previous experience had taught them that, when drunk and full of self-doubt, Grantaire would try to distance himself from his friends as much as he could. Joly had an obscure medical term for it, and described it thus: not wanting to burden anyone with his troubles, or be 'annoying' to Les Amis, Grantaire would remove himself as completely as he could. 

What he didn't realise, of course, was that none of them, and especially not Enjolras, found trying to keep him safe at all burdensome.

* * *

Enjolras left the taxi as soon as it had crossed the river, handing the driver what was probably several times the fare and not waiting for the change. The driver thanked him, grinning at the foolishness of this lost and scared-looking youth, and drove off.

Enjolras headed into the Rive Droite proper, hurrying towards the district which Grantaire had called home for a long time, drawn there by its bar-lined streets and cheap drinks. 

He began the long walk down the nearest main street, whose lurid front windows made them uncomfortable even now, with the sun shining and their bright lights off; to Enjolras, the thought of Grantaire in such a place was a horrible one. Pausing several times to peer into dank anyways, he continued his walk, making his way down a street which, in his opinion, was far more familiar to him than it ought to be.

He knew which alleyways to search, which bars were open throughout the day, and which sold the cheapest wine; he had a map of this area of Paris burned into his eyelids, having memorized it late one night, when Grantaire had been safely asleep in bed, _just in case,_ as he had told himself, wanting to be prepared but praying that he wouldn't need to be.

That Grantaire would stay safe.

But he hadn't, and now Enjolras was left searching for him in deserted pathways, knowing where each led and how to navigate the streets but cursing that knowledge because, really, it could not bring Grantaire any closer to him.

As he neared the end of the main road, his looks into alleyways became more and more frantic, and to him, each dark area hid a shape which could be Grantaire. Why had he got all the way down the road without seeing him? Had he missed an alleyway, or simply not seen his lover's form down any of the countless ones he had checked? Enjolras couldn't remember Grantaire ever having gone this far away from the river – usually, he was to be found far nearer the Seine, passed out in some obscure, dark place, but now he was nowhere to be seen, and probably, Enjolras thought, wandering in some part of Paris he didn't know at all.

He jogged past yet another gaudy glass window, his reflection flashing past in it, hair still askew and eyes wild. The last alleyway plunged into darkness on the left, and he went to its opening, looking as far as he could down it in the hope that Grantaire would be there. He saw nothing except a shadowy form against one of the walls, something that looked like a pile of refuse.

He turned away.

* * *

Feuilly put down his phone, looking around at the others who were still at the Café Musain. They had called every bar they could think of, and texted all their acquaintances, but nobody had any news of Grantaire.

Jehan looked up from the seat he had been sharing with Courfeyrac, who was now out searching. “Should we go help them? What good can we do here? There's only Montparnasse left that we could call, and I heard 'Ponine telling 'Ferre not to." 

Musichetta nodded. “Yes. We need to find him as soon as possible. I'll call 'Ferre and ask him where we should start.”

Combeferre picked up immediately, his voice tight and choppy. “Yes?”

“Nobody knows anything. What should we do? Have you called Montparnasse?”

He sighed. “No. And we're not going to, not until we have to. Come help us. We'll meet by the bridge. He's not on this side, that's for sure." 

They filed out of the back room in silence, pulling on jackets. At the door of the shop, they met the barmaid, who had realised what was going on, and looked at them worriedly; all they could do was shake their heads. They had no news to give her.

* * *

Grantaire came back to consciousness slowly, aware only of the cold, hard stone at his back and the damp concrete he was sitting on. His head hurt, and his eyes seemed stuck closed. The first thought that went through his head was that of Enjolras, and he suddenly very much wanted to feel his arms around him, to feel safe, and to feel loved.

That was how Enjolras made him feel.

He groaned slightly, a mutter of Enjolras' name, and tried to move, but, once again, his body rebelled, and he remained slumped against the wall.

At the opening of the alleyway, Enjolras turned back, staring at the form he had not previously recognised. He stepped forward, and gasped, “Grantaire? R, is that you?” 

The lump – Grantaire – shifted slightly, and Enjolras heard the voice of his lover whisper, “Enjolras?”

He rushed forward, falling to his knees beside Grantaire and pulling him into his arms, burying his nose into his curls. Grantaire reached up slowly, grabbing hold of the back of Enjolras' jacket and holding on. He spoke again, his voice quiet and shaky.

“I'm sorry. Please, please don't leave me.”

Enjolras pulled back slightly, and pressed a kiss to Grantaire's forehead.

“I'm here, R. I'm here, I've got you.”

Grantaire sniffed quietly and held him tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and thank you to everyone who left comments - they make writing this even more fun!


	4. Chapter Four

They were still cuddled together in the alleyway some time later, when Enjolras remembered the rest of Les Amis, who were still out looking for Grantaire. He pulled out of the embrace slightly, and Grantaire groaned and tried to follow him. Enjolras shushed him gently, one hand stroking his curls, as he searched for his phone with the other.

Kissing Grantaire's forehead, he whispered, “I'm going to call the others. Do you want them to come get us?”

Grantaire looked up at him, eyes going wide, and Enjolras could almost feel the self-doubt and thoughts along the lines of _shouldn't burden them more_ going through his head. He stroked his cheek with a quiet, “they won't mind. They want you safe as much as I do.” 

Grantaire smiled, and nodded, pushing himself forwards so that he could rest his head on Enjolras' shoulder. Enjoras wrapped one arm around him, not wanting to lose the contact he had only just found, and called Combeferre, who picked up almost immediately.

“Yes? Hello?” 

“'Ferre. It's okay, I've got him. Could someone come get us? We could meet you at the bridge in ten minutes.”

Combeferre sighed with relief, and Enjolras could hear him relaying the news to whoever was with him.

“We'll be there as soon as we can."

Enjolras thanked him and hung up. He looked down at Grantaire and smiled. “C'mon, R, let's go. We've only got to get as far as the bridge.”

Grantaire groaned theatrically and muttered something about betrayal, but made a move to get up. With Enjolras' steadying arm around his waist, he was able to stand, but doing so induced a wave of nausea, and he bent over, violently throwing up. Enjolras held his hair back and stroked soothing circles into his back, murmuring reassurances, brow furrowed with worry. 

Grantaire, straightening, took the tissue Enjolras offered and wiped his mouth. “M'sorry.”

Enjolras pulled him close against his side, holding him tightly, and began to lead them towards the entrance of the alleyway, saying gently, “don't be. I've got you.”

* * *

Combeferre lowered his phone and turned to Joly, smiling widely. “Let's get back to my car, and call the others.”

Joly nodded, returning the smile, and took out his phone. As they walked back towards the Musain, they called the others, passing on the good news and telling them all to meet outside the cafe. 

The walk was short, and they arrived at the same time as Courfeyrac and Bahorel to find Éponine and Bossuet already waiting at the car. They all turned towards Combeferre eagerly, awaiting more information, but he shook his head, and told them that they needed to go meet Enjolras and Grantaire at the bridge.

In tandem, they turned towards the car, leaving Combeferre behind them, watching as they realised that the space inside was limited, and began bickering over who would sit where. He sighed, smiling slightly at their enthusiasm to see their friend, and pushed through them, saying, “we can't all go. Joly, you can sit shotgun. Everyone else, go inside, get some drinks. They might want to go straight home, but there's no harm in being prepared.”

With many sighs and glares, the rest of Les Amis stepped back and allowed a slightly smug but mostly worried Joly to take his place next to Combeferre. The car pulled away from the kerb, and they entered the cafe, nodding at the waitress and making their way back to the back room.

* * *

Enjolras and Grantaire leaned against the balustrade which ran along the sides of the bride, looking for Combeferre's car. Enjolras' hand, curled around Grantaire's waist to keep him close, stroked his side gently, and Grantaire leaned his weight against his lover, resting his head on his shoulder.

“R?”

Grantaire raised his head slightly, nose brushing Enjolras' chin. “Mm?”

“Happy birthday.”

Grantaire smiled, kissed Enjolras' jawline, and cuddled closer to him. 

“I love you.”

Enjolras smiled down at him, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, closing his eyes and concentrating on the feeling of Grantaire in his arms. He was safe. 

A shout of “Enjolras!” made him look up, and he saw Combeferre's car pulled up at the edge of the pavement, Joly, in the passenger seat, peering anxiously at Grantaire over Combeferre's shoulder. Enjolras grinned at them, and raised his free hand in a half-wave. He shifted the embrace so that Grantaire was once again supported by Enjolras' side, and moved them towards the car. Grantaire, having woken up fully now, squeezed Enjolras' shoulders in thanks, and took as much of his own weight as he could.

They tumbled together into the back seat of the car, Enjolras falling half on top of Grantaire, and catching himself on his arms just soon enough to find himself face to face with his lover. He smiled and kissed his forehead, sitting up and helping Grantaire to shuffle into his seat. Joly unbuckled his seatbelt and knelt up on his chair, reaching into the back of the car to take Grantaire's pulse and look him over for injuries. Grantaire tolerated the examination, looking at Joly with an expression he knew well: I'm _fine_ , its okay. 

Joly turned to Enjolras and spoke in his professional voice, all to the point and clear. “He'll be fine. We can go back to the Musain, if you like, or you can take him straight home." 

Then he turned back to Grantaire, grinned at him, and said, “Happy birthday, finally. Its good to see you.” 

Grantaire smiled back up at him and leaned over so that he was resting against Enjolras' side. Enjolras wrapped an arm around him.

“R, can we go back to the Musain for a little while? Then I'll take you home, I promise.”

Grantaire looked down and nodded, thinking that Enjolras wanted to go back in order to speak to someone about 'official business'. He went to pull away from the embrace, but Enjolras held him tighter.

“It's your birthday, R. Everyone's there, and there's presents and food and -”

Grantaire sat up, staring at Enjolras. His voice was full of wonder. “Wait. You... you organised a _party_? For _me_?” 

Enjolras smiled at his expression and nodded. “Of course.” 

Grantaire kissed his cheek, murmured a soft “thank you”, and settled back against his side.

* * *

They arrived back at the Musain to cheers and hugs from all the Amis. Jehan launched himself at Grantaire as soon as he had crossed the threshold, hugging him tightly. He was followed by Courfeyrac, who shook his head at Grantaire but embraced him as hard as he could. The other Amis pulled Enjolras and Grantaire over to the sofa and sat them down, positioning themselves around them. 

There was a knock at the door, and the barmaid came in. She smiled to see Grantaire safe, and inquired as to what she should do about the food.

Enjolras answered immediately. “I'm very sorry about the inconvenience – we'll recompense you, if you want. We won't eat now, but would it be possible to reschedule this party for another date?”

The barmaid, used to the changeable nature of the group, sighed and nodded, leaving the way she had come.

Enjolras looked at the Amis as they laughed and chatted, wishing Grantaire a happy birthday and giving him the presents they had brought. Grantaire accepted each one with an increasing look of wonder and happiness, amazed at the effort his friends had gone into. Settled against Enjolras on the sofa and surrounded by their friends, he was able to remove the conversation with his father from his mind.

Gradually, the conversation turned to how and where Grantaire had been found. Éponine leaned over the back of the sofa to whisper loud enough that everyone could hear, “Enjolras was terrified, you know.”

Enjolras bolted upright from where he had been leaning against the cushions. “No – no I wasn't! I was perfectly calm and rational!”

In truth, Enjolras had been scared out of his mind. The Amis, however, did not have to know that – Enjolras knew full well that his standing in their eyes was upheld by his unflinching demeanor and ability to lead, whatever the circumstances. At least, he thought he knew. In reality, of course, the Amis respected him all the more for how human he was when with Grantaire.

Enjolras stood up, trying to get away from the knowing looks the Amis were sending him. “Grantaire's tired. We should be going. C'mon, R, let's get you home.”

Grantaire stood, gathering his presents and apologising quietly to whoever he could reach, receiving only “shhh, don't mention it,” and “happy birthday,” in return. Having negotiated the tangle of people on the floor, Enjolras paused at the door to pull Grantaire closer to him, wrapping his arm around his waist. He looked back at their friends, all of whom were smiling at them, and grinned.

* * *

Back home, Enjolras and Grantaire were curled around each other on the sofa, Enjolras on his back and Grantaire half on top of him and half stuffed into the tiny space between Enjolras' body and the back of the sofa. 

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire blinked his eyes open, and looked blearily up at his lover, smiling slightly.

“I was a little worried.”

Grantaire grinned and moved to straddle Enjolras, leaning down so that their faces were almost touching. He kissed him gently, slowly, trying to convey his love for the man beneath him. 

Enjolras reached up to hold Grantaire and kissed him back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading this! We've reached the end, and I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I've enjoyed writing. 
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who left comments and kudos - you made this even more fun and rewarding!


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